


Vul Yol Fahliil

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: Second Star [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: The Conclave destroyed, the Divine murdered, the sky torn asunder... Is there no hope left for Thedas? Many thought there was no hope left for Skyrim, either.UPDATE: I'm uploading a second version of 'Vul Yol Fahliil' because I didn't want to delete this one. 'Kun Iiz Fahliil' was, I admit, a terrible second shot. I'm hoping you'll find the next, published under the title 'Neh Viir Vul Toor', up to your standards.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank 'tayraystar' for the inspiration.

Two men, two Templars, guarded the door to the inner dungeon. Inside were four more, one positioned in each corner of the room, holding spears that glinted a dirty silver in the guttering torchlight. They stood at attention to receive their guests: a woman in fine, heavy armour, sporting a glistening silver shield and sword – Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, formally the Right Hand to Divine Justinia – and a man, an elf, wearing simplistic, humbling robes – Solas, presently arcane advisor to said Seeker.

Before them lay a strange creature, clad in armour blacker than a thousand starless skies, the hard planes of the foreign metal lined with a pulsing blood red material, and they feared it might be organic in origin. Suffice to say, the design alone, with its horned helmet, clawed gauntlets and protruding scales, was terrifyingly demonic. With one hand clutching the pommel of her sword, Seeker Pentaghast gestured to the prone figure.

“This is the demon we spoke of. We do not know what it is, or how it still lives, but the mark it bears is a sure sign of its guilt.” As if on cue, a blinding flash of poisonous green light flared, entombing the room, radiating from the creature’s left hand. The guards drew their spears, but the creature did not stir. “We have yet to track down its master. If mages are indeed responsible, they were likely consumed within the explosion.”

“You say it walked out of a Rift, out of the Fade, in this form?” Solas questioned.

“Yes. It was conscious, able to stand and fight before our Templars incapacitated it.”

"And it has not awakened since?”

“No,” the Seeker assured.

“Then we have little time to waste. May I?” At her gesture, the elf approached. “Has anyone been able to determine what lies underneath its armour?”

“No,” the Seeker repeated, her voice all but a growl. “And I would refrain from trying, if I were you. It appears to be enchanted. One of our Templars received sizable burns to his hands when he tried to remove the helmet, another frostbite, and a third was struck by lightning. Repeatedly. He… did not survive.”

Solas nodded, a stern and sombre acknowledgement, before proceeding. He had only just knelt beside creature when he suddenly stood, reeling back, the Templars once again drawing their spears as the Seeker drew her sword.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“Nothing… happened,” he replied. “But this – this…” He gestured aggressively, hopelessly, to the being before them. “Whatever it is, it is unlike any demon or spirit I have ever encountered. It radiates power, a unique, self-sustained, internal power, unlike anything I have ever felt, and it is currently fighting for domination over the mark.”

“Then… it would have been powerful enough to destroy the Temple? To create the Breach? All on its own?”

“Possibly, but its power is not like the magic you or I know. Its only connection to the Fade stems from the mark. I cannot imagine any creature with power enough to tear a hole in the Fade without an exponentially strong connection to it.”

“And the mark? Would it work as you say? Could it truly seal the Rifts?”

“In theory, yes,” Solas answered, taking to his knees beside the creature once more, turning over the marked hand to find its claws clenched in a fist. “Presently, the mark is somewhat stable in that it has reached an obstacle it cannot yet scale. Once it learns how, it will spread and this… whatever it is, it will die.”

“Can you stop it?”

“I can attempt to contain it for a time, to slow its progress, but even all the mages in Thedas would not possess the power to permanently imprison the magic.”

“Do what you can,” the Seeker bid, sheathing her sword as she turned to the closest Templar. “Bring him whatever he needs, and alert me should it wake.”

Following their salute, which she returned, the Seeker departed, the door slamming shut behind her; the Templars proceeded to drop the heavy deadbolts in place, the sound of bones breaking howled like a starving, Blighted wolf. Hands clutched around the creature’s cursed palm, Solas bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“Do not be alarmed. I will be unresponsive for a time,” he warned. If they answered, he did not hear them.


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas has no knowledge of his surroundings to have transformed this particular corner of the Fade, nor does he possess any knowledge of the creature - who claims he is not an elf, and that they are - and without Wisdom, all he is left with is Pride. Time will see that he loses even that.

When he opened his eyes, Solas was not kneeling in the dungeons of Haven’s Chantry but standing at the footsteps of a great temple built into the side of a mountain he did not, could not, recognise from his extensive travels. Around him, he could see nothing but clouds, a weak sun beating down from on high, so he pressed forward into the ruins. He soon learned that that was not an accurate description: the ancient, primitive design had survived millennia, the stones engraved with foreign runes almost invisible to the untrained eye, and it stood in its entirety, attacked only by time and weather. It showed no signs of life, though there were collections of bones picked clean and, further on, he caught sight of several rib cages bound with empty quivers, its design unfamiliar to him.

Ahead was a tower, the interior carved into the mountain side and, where two doors stone, one several stories above the other leading out onto the weathered skeleton of a stone balcony. Nearby lay three corpses devoid of any flesh, their skin tight against their bones, which had been dressed in armour of a similar, if heavier, design to the quivers, the materials far older than the bodies that wore them. They were almost perfectly preserved. One was reaching for a battle axe forged from a starless black metal, and it was as he knelt to inspect the intricate carvings that an arrow clattered against the stone a breath in front of his face.

Snapping his head around, ready to defend himself against the denizens of the Fade, surprised he had not heard the arrow in flight, Solas found himself alone with the creature in the demonic armour. It stood atop a tall flight of once handsome, now rounded, stone steps wielding a bow conjured from the Fade itself, the magic rippling through shades of emerald green, sapphire blue and purple amethyst. Slowly, Solas rose to his feet, hands raised in supplication: it still had an arrow trained at his chest.

“Who are you?” it demanded, its voice indeterminably wrong to his ears. “What did you do with Odahviing?”

“I am Solas, and I know not what happened to Odearving.”

“ _Od-ah-viing_! My _zeymah_! My brother!” the creature raged, drawing its bow.

_Fenedhis!_ “Please, be calm. I will share with you all I know. How should I address you?”

The bowstring fell, the arrow dematerialised, followed swiftly by the bow. “ _Fahliil_ will suffice.”

“ _Fahliil_ , then. I am sorry, but your brother is most likely dead –”

In the blink of an eye, _Fahliil_ was standing in front of Solas, a blur of light lost in the rumble of thunder, a clawed gauntlet clutching his throat as it lifted him off the ground.

“Fa – _Fahliil_ , please!”

“What are you? What have you done to my brother?” it bellowed, yet its voice was but a whisper.

“I do not… understand,” he gasped, fighting for purchase against the black metal.

With a deep sigh, a blast of air with the heat of a roaring fire, _Fahliil_ reunited Solas with the ground but its claws remained around his throat. “You are telling the truth.” Solas could imagine it frowning. “You have the ears of Mer, but you do not look like one.”

“If by ‘Mer’ you mean ‘elf’ then, yes, you are correct. I am an elf.”

“No! You are no Mer!” _Fahliil_ declared, forcing Solas to fight off its tightening grip with now sobbing red fingers. “You are too pale, too short and too small.”

“Allow – Allow me to explain, _Fahliil_.” It would later shame him that he had been reduced to begging, like a common dog.

Slowly, flexing its claws as it went, _Fahliil_ released its grasp and took a single step back, folding its arms. After a second of nursing life back into his bruised flesh, which _Fahliil_ did not comment upon – _of course it would know I am a mage_ – Solas began.

“I do not know where you are from, or what you are, _Fahliil_ , but I _am_ an elf from the land of Thedas. Four days ago, a hole was torn in the sky, destroying a scared temple, killing hundreds – thousands – of people. In the wake of the explosion, several smaller holes called Rifts opened. You fell through one, into Thedas, the only survivor we have found thus far.”

_Fahliil_ growled, turning aside to pace, one arm crossed over its chest, the hand nestled in the crook of the other which was holding, what Solas assumed to be, its chin in an oddly intelligent and graceful pose it maintained seamlessly.

“What you tell me is true, and it explains much. I came to this very temple –” It extended its arms wide, encompassing the mountainside, “– on a mission with Odahviing. He would not betray my location, or that of the temple, to anyone. He would die first.” As it spoke, Solas could feel the certainty of its words. “Atop this temple is a portal that can only be unlocked by the staff of the Dragon Priest Nahkriin.” Solas released a breath he did not know he was holding, but _Fahliil_ paid him no mind, still pacing. “I killed the priest some years ago, but, on my return, the staff was missing. I tracked one of his apprentices to the tower behind you. When it tried to open the portal, I thought it trying to escape, or perhaps raised its master, but before the portal could open we were sucked into a strange green light…”

“Yes. That is where we now stand. It is called the Fade, the realm of dreams to the races of Thedas. You have been asleep since you arrived in our world, and since we were unable to remove your armour –” _Fahliil_ chuckled, but waved off his frown, “– I offered my aid in tending to you. The magic used to tear a hole in the sky also tore a hole in the Fade, and that magic has attached itself to your hand.”

“Um… no wonder it feels so numb.”

Solas blinked. “You… You cannot feel it? The magic, I mean. It does not hurt?”

“Not in the traditional sense. I have been aware that something was attacking me, my body, but my mind remains my own. I would liken the magic you speak of as a disease, a parasite. It does not seek to kill me but consume me, and I have no intention of letting it. Can you fight this magic, Solas?”

“No, I cannot. It was my hope that I might be able to contain it, for we yet have use for it.” At its gesture to continue, Solas complied. “The largest hole, the Breach, is responsible for the creation of the Rifts, and demons –”

“Demons? You mean Dremora.”

“I… do not think so, for I do not know what Dremora are.”

“Dremora are Lesser Daedra, servants to the Daedric Lords that inhabit the Planes of Oblivion,” _Fahliil_ explained, its voice perfectly neutral, as if it were simply imparting common knowledge.

“It sounds as if your Dremora, and Daedra, are similar to our demons for demons inhabit the Fade, praying upon the mind of Dreamers in an attempt to possess them and allow them to experience the physical world they covet.”

“They are not so similar,” _Fahliil_ denied. “Not even the Dremora would stoop so low as to inhabit the body of a mortal. Some disguise themselves as such, but they would never inhabit such a weak prison. It would surely destroy its victim, or render them insane.”

“Fascinating!” Solas could not hide the awe in his voice.

_Fahliil_ laughed. “You are not the only one to think so. I expected to encounter some here, but I have only met strange monstrosities that have preyed upon my emotions. Are these the demons you speak of?”

“Yes, and they range in power and strength, depending on the emotions they embody. Rage is widely considered to be the weakest –”

“And yet one of the strongest forces in its all-consuming corruption.”

Solas bowed his head in agreement, delighted beyond words to find a kindred soul in such a stranger. “– and Pride the strongest.”

_Fahliil_ hummed thoughtfully, and Solas felt something… shift in the Fade, though he could not identify what, and that concerned him greatly. They would no doubt appear as a veritable feast, but he had no desire to engage in open combat. Time was running out.

“The demons, they have hounded our people for days, but it has been theorised that the magic on your hand could be instrumental in sealing the Rifts and, possibly, the Breach itself. I would ask, on behalf of Thedas, that you help us, _Fahliil_.”

  “And I offer my aid, my word that I will help your people and find those responsible. I also offer an apology.” When Solas frowned, it sighed, a heavy an exhausting sound that smelled of stale air. “My name is not _Fahliil_. It is Aster. _Fahliil_ was what by brother called me. It means Mer, or elf, in the Dragon Tongue.”

“Dragon Tongue…? Does that mean –”

“That my brother is a dragon? Yes. It also means he will look for me until he finds a body.”

A weight of uncertainty came to rest of Solas’ shoulders. “Does it also mean you are an elf?”

“In body only,” Aster replied. “But I bear no resemblance to you. As intimidating as my armour is, my appearance may be just as terrifying to your people. Would it benefit you to see my face now? Or, would you rather wait?”

 “You are of no threat to us, Aster, and they will come to understand this, given time. And as… curious as I am to see what the elves of your land look like, we have little time, and I would only serve to distract us both with questions.”

“I will answer all the questions I can. Once you leave, I will endeavour to wake. May Azura guide you, and the shadows preserve you.”

Struck silent, Solas replied with but a curt nod, forcing himself to wake lest temptation lead him astray. He heard the shuffling of metal against stone and declared, to no one in particular, that he would leave and inform the Seeker that their prisoner would soon wake. The Templars offered no objection to this, eyeing him as they did, as if her were a barrel of _gaatlok_ and the fuse invisible, oblivious the droplets of blood trailing in the elf’s wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Od-ah-viing = Snow-Hunter-Wing.
> 
> Zeymah = Brother.
> 
> Fahliil = Elf.
> 
> Fenedhis = Common curse.


	3. Allies and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn makes a decision, one she hopes to see through to its conclusion.

Solas.

_Pride_ , her brothers had warned.

Aster waited several moments after Solas had faded from view to conjure one of the old Nordic thrones to sit upon, the cold stone offering but little reassurance. Having since paralysed a… ‘Demon’ of Terror, melted one of Despair and beheaded Desire, Aster had been left very much alone. At least, until Pride made its move. It – he – had been waiting, watching, guarding, gathering information before greeting her as but a humble, curious ‘elf’, desperate for aid. There were several things wrong with his disguise, and she did not believe it for a moment.

With a heavy sigh, Aster set about removing both her gauntlets, and helmet, revealing to no one a pair of glistening, blood red eyes, dissolving and re-emerging from an internal inferno of fire. They were framed by long locks of thick, black hair plaited and bound for convenience beside a pair of elongated, pointed ears. In the constant light of the frozen sun, Aster’s sharp and graceful facial features and grey skin spoke volumes of her ancestry, but it did not encompass it all and for that she was glad.

It was clear Solas was not of Nirn, and it was obvious he did not know her true identity, otherwise he would not have so clearly mispronounced her brother’s name. He had, at first, believed Odahviing was indeed dead, but learning her brother was a dragon had given him pause. That gave Aster hope. He was not lying about the destruction of the scared temple, nor was he lying about the heavy death toll, or the Breach; it sounded very much like an Oblivion Gate to Aster, but she had not been alive during the Crisis and she could not afford to assume. If they did not have Daedra, or even Dremora, in Thedas then there was a greater chance that their world could be saved. Yet, to be the only survivor of such devastation…

_Helgen. Helgen, again,_ she sighed.

Aster had kept her story purposefully vague, hinting just enough to inspire curiosity in Pride for there was no doubt in her mind that he coveted knowledge, and it took a great amount of will for him to resist. When she mentioned Nahkriin, however, his relief was tangible.

_Which means the Dragon Priests are involved… but how? Perhaps Thedas has its own cult of Dragon worshippers._ _But the magic that connects our worlds is not of Nirn, and the Priest seemed as terrified as me, so how –_

Quicker than a man could blink, Aster rose, the throne vanishing from sight, rising in spirals of grey smoke. She was not alone in this world. She could not afford to think so, not if the Priest, or his apprentice, still lived. Pride claimed she was the only survivor, but a lifeless skeleton would escape their attention, especially if they had no knowledge of Nirn’s magic. Should she tell Solas? Powerful as he seemed – yet barely mediocre to her – it did not sound as if he had any real influence, and if such knowledge endangered his goals – for Aster was certain he had his own – then he may never share it and more people would die. Gods forbid, if Thedas had dragons there would be no end to the slaughter.

Sliding on her helmet and gauntlets, Aster turned and walked up the stairs towards the portal to Sovngarde; it made sense that if she had fallen through it into Thedas, she would need to fall through it once more to wake from their dream realm. She was not without a staff, but the memory of first plunging into the depths of the Nord afterlife was enough to fragment her surroundings. When she next opened her eyes, there was a neat stone ceiling above her, covered in dirt, and she was kneeling in the centre of a very small dungeon; her wrists and ankles were shackled in irons, both connected to a chain that extended to opposite sides of the room, and there were four guards in odd armour points spears at her. Before she could laugh, she screamed – or, rather, she roared, unintentionally shaking the very foundations of whatever fort they were in – and the pain, the raw agony, curling up her left arm told her this was not a dream.


	4. Wrath of Heaven: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her prisoner is more than the armour they wear, more than the blade and bow they wield... They are Thedas' only hope. But is that what logic dictates? What her faith tells her? Or, is it what the faithful think? Cassandra does not know.

Solas told her she would not believe him, but Cassandra did not think his new-found knowledge would be so… unbelievable. It was something she expected from Varric, a Dwarf of questionable morals, not an elven apostate at constant risk of persecution. To hear their prisoner, a powerful mage, was brought here from another land, and that there was an elf beneath all that armour, one whose appearance was just as frightful, if not more so, than the malevolence they wore –

The prisoner did not scream. They howled – _roared_ – a guttural roar, something a dying animal would make, and it did not comfort Cassandra in the slightest. Solas’ claim that the supposed elf spoke a language unlike their own now had evidence, if not outright proof, and it – the armour did not allude to the elf’s gender – readily agreed to help them, explained in what little broken Common it had picked up from Solas and their wanderings of the Fade.

It was not yet twilight when they exited the Chantry, but by the time they reached the lower valley dawn was breaking, yet their prisoner was not winded in the slightest. If Cassandra were to hazard a guess, she would estimate the elf wore enough metal for three Templars, and it seemed perfectly at eased with the harsh, icy and sporadically slushy terrain. It had, on occasion, taken the Seeker’s arm to stop her from falling, or steered her to a more secure path.

Yet it said nothing, savour several attempts to correctly pronounce ‘Seeker’, ‘Pentaghast’, and 'Justinia'. It did, however, seem eager to meet Leliana – perhaps the word ‘Nightingale’ meant something else in their language? – and Cassandra could not help but feel uneasy. Her mood did not improve when she learned from the scouts posted at the valley gates that a new Rift had opened, which explained why Leliana had left so suddenly; Varric and Solas had travelled ahead to provide support, and buy them more time. She hoped it would be enough.

They were nearing the second bridge when the Breach’s magic fluctuated. The prisoner stumbled, but remained standing, though their pace was slowed considerably until they reached the river. A crash of thunder all but broke her ear drums, and something grabbed her, dragging her at such a speed she had to fight the urge to vomit her meagre breakfast. Cassandra was not the only victim: half a dozen scouts, who had been loading a wagon with salvaged supplies, were in various states of compromise.

Only the prisoner seemed unaffected, but when the Seeker turned to demand an explanation, behind them – or, rather in front of them, for the prisoner had turned their back upon her – were near a dozen demons, crowding around the sheer drop where the bridge once stood. It had been utterly destroyed, a piece of the Temple of Scared Ashes, along with a statue of Andraste, embedded within the rubble.

Cassandra did not pretend to understand what had happened and instead called the scouts to arms. Three answered, a pair of archers and another wielding a set of daggers sharp enough to cut through steel. The battle did not last overly long, for three more sporting shields and long swords joined her, and Cassandra did not dare to think what she would have done if the scouts had not survived. When the last demon fell, she looked to the archers, and found them both inspecting a rippling bow the colour of sparking amethysts, laid with emerald, held by her prisoner. She mounted the broken remains of the bridge and demanded them to drop their weapon, but it simply faded out of existence, allowing with the quiver of arrows on their back.

In the silence, the prisoner conjured to hand a ball of purple-black magic that, once solidified, transformed into a dagger. What little Cassandra knew of such weapons told her their prisoner was a Knight-Enchanter, which meant - hopefully - there would be some kind of record, at least of their Harrowing, but not even the strongest of mages could produce a weapon out of solid magic. When they conjured a small orb of golden light, which phased out along their gauntlet and into the arm of the archer beside them, the now heavily bleeding gash disappeared, as did the hole in the leather.

Praying to the Maker for patience, for strength, and for courage, it was with some difficulty that Cassandra gave them permission to cast as they pressed ahead, the scouts electing to join them, and the Seeker new it was not on Leliana’s orders. Even as Solas' words floated through her mind, and her memory of first arriving amidst the devastation, a constant pounding on the inside of her skull, the light in the eyes of her soldiers gave her pause. They were exhausted, yes, as were they all, but it no longer showed, and neither did their fear; it had been replaced by unwavering determination, by the hope she had failed to inspire in them.

_Maker, help us all_ , the Seeker sighed, fishing out a collection of vials from the pouch on her belt and handing them to her prisoner. Something in her chest squirmed uncomfortably when, without hesitation, they were distributed among their new companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think so far? Should I post more chapters? 
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.


	5. Wrath of Heaven: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aster is glad to be wrong. Then the consequences of her being right hit home. What will she do to protect the people she loves? What will she do to protect perfect strangers?

Aster was immediately wary of the vials bestowed upon her by the Seeker. The glass was perfectly clear, and very thick, allowing her to view the lax red liquid within, but she could not feel the heat one generally associated with healing potions. The shape of the vial, that of a rounded hourglass, also gave her cause for concern: it bore a striking resemblance to the vials Skyrim’s alchemists typically used for storing their poisons.

Though a proficient alchemist herself, Aster favoured enchantments over poisons for one simple reason: the glass for each vial had to be manufactured for a specific purpose, a specific poison, the expense steeper than even the Throat of the World.

Most were embedded with subtle enchantments, as a substandard means of preserving the affliction within; others were reinforced with metal to withstand the acidity of the toxin they held; and some were so delicate, so easy to fracture, that the slightest miscalculation would bring about certain death.

The lack of guarantee from the glassblowers Aster employed served as a blatant warning that they could not offer one. Ever. As far as the Dunmer was concerned, her spells and enchantments were far more reliable, and it was with these concerns that she approached one of her new companions.

Aster had watched one of the archers apply an acidic coating to his arrows, but when Aster offered him a vial, a jubilant smile broke out across his face, and he called a particularly haggard warrior forth; the man in question looked very much like a starved vampire, his face pale, skin sallowed with bruises, and eye sockets sunken.

Like his companion, he recognised the vial – and its contents – for the change in his demeanour was instantaneous; with naught a second’s hesitation, he removed the cork, turning the red potion a bright, luminous green, and downed it in a single gulp. Colour returned to his cheeks as life flooded his eyes. He was not cured, by any means, but he no longer stood on Arkay’s doorstep.

Christening them ‘Tonics’, Aster divided them according to class – one between the archers, the rear-guard; three between the warriors, the vanguard, though the duel-wielder refused – and returned the remaining three to the Seeker. For a heartbeat, she stared, in utter incomprehension, but she recovered quickly, nodding and insisting they move faster.

The sounds of a battle high above them, atop the cliff the Seeker was leading them towards, echoed throughout the valley. For a moment, all Aster could hear was the deafening chaos of war.

She was standing beside Lydia, defending Whiterun -

She was fighting back-to-back with Ondolemar, in Understone Keep, against the Silver-Bloods

She was clawing through the Stormcloak swamped streets of Winterhold

She was charging down Stormcloak spies in Solitude

She was slicing through the _Sons of Skyrim_ as she advanced through Windhelm, the Palace of Kings almost within reach –

She was lying in the snow, head ringing, hands shaking, vision blurring, a twisted black creature poised to strike –

“ _FEIM!_ ” she roared, wicked claws fading through her intangible body.

Aster rolled left, towards the rocks, gathering her feet under her as she drew upon her magicka to Close Wounds. Mind clear, eyes alert, they fell upon the crater in the river and the statue of a Mara look-alike sinking beneath the ice. Rubble and rock littered the battlefield, her allies besieged by an army of demons and undead, their eyes glowing a bright, clear crystal blue.

“ _Nahkriin! Krif zu’u! Nikriin!_ ” she challenged, conjuring a pair of Daedric swords as she charged, cloaked in flame, beheading everything in her path.

_Not today, Arkay. Not today._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feim - Fade (Become Ethereal).  
> Nahkriin - Nah (fury); Kriin (slay; slaughter)  
> Krif zu’u - Fight me.  
> Nikriin - Coward.
> 
> Thanks for all your support! I'm going to be posting at least one chapter per week.  
> Merry Christmas!


	6. Wrath of Heaven: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is a part of war, a part of life. Whether she likes it or not, Seeker Pentaghast's prisoner has become an instrumental force in both, regardless of who - or what - they are.

Cassandra watched the burnt and bloodstained face of Andraste sink beneath the ice, the water both cleansing and degrading, freeing and entombing her mind within the weathered marble. It was no secret that she joined the Seekers of Truth, to liberate herself from the gilded cage that was her uncle’s pride and joy: The Grand Necropolis. But… it was as if she never left.

She counted no less than twelve still twitching corpses, a total of six Templars, three mages and an civilian among two of her own warriors.

_Andraste guide me._

Cassandra recited the appropriate prayers, but it took all her strength not to let her voice waver as Leliana’s scouts laid a thirteenth to rest. One of their own. It was hard for her to think themselves lucky  when they had lost near half their forces.

In spite of her protests, there was no way the Seeker could have predicted the attack; the Breach’s magic fluctuated with wild abandon, the demons hitching rides on the flaming meteors, twisted monsters of the tales her brother used to tell her of the famed Pentaghast dragon tamers and slayers.

She was insistent, however, having reflected upon the ambush of undead. A coordinated attack. There was life in their eyes, but it was not their own, the colour of an otherworldly blue, bright and all-consuming like lyrium. But there had been no trace in their blood, nothing for her to manipulate.

Her abilities were useless, and the Templars bore down upon them like Darkspawn during a Blight, unstoppable and relentless, cleaving through all in their path. The meteors separated them, the Templars drove them apart, and the mages picked them off. One by one. 

When the prisoner fell, it was not instinct but desperation that drove her. When the prisoner rose, her chest swelled with hope so strong it felt like a tangible force, burning brighter than even the repulsive energy emanating from the Breach. Then she realised, her dread and terror an unblockable blow to her gut: the prisoner was _on fire,_ burning like - 

Burning, but… unharmed. Empowered, even, by her fury. Snow and ice melted under their feet, two swords carved from amethysts, ladened with poisonous green emeralds, materialised in their hands, momentarily distorting the air around them. Cassandra had heard of, and even felt, but never _seen_ , a mage not so much bend the Veil to their will but burn _through_ it, as if it did not even exist.

With incredible speed, they charged, beheading two Templars in a single, swift swing of a flaming blade. The demons recoiled from the raw heat radiating from them, and the dead began shouting in a language the Seeker had never heard, and the prisoner roared right back.

“ _Nahkriin! Krif zu’u! Nikriin!_ ”

A challenge. For who, Cassandra did not know, but she had taunted many an enemy to know a war cry when she heard it. The battle lasted seconds. It took longer to burn the bodies, even with the prisoner’s proficiency with fire.

One of the warriors tried, repeatedly, unsuccessfully, to get his friend to drink a potion. Before the Seeker could even think of how to console a perfect stranger, the prisoner knelt beside them, and drew their hands over their prone companion, claws alight with magic the colour of liquid gold. Nothing happened, and Cassandra knew why.

_One of Cullen’s…_

As she expected, the prisoner shook their head, but his friend continuing begging, pleading. A scout, a woman with a pair of ichor-stained daggers, tore into him and he, eventually, relented, accepting the inevitable.

“ _Mu fen zin him vahruk_ ,” the prisoner declared, grasping a pale hand, voice strong, unwavering. Whatever they said, Cassandra found herself believing them.

Before they could stand, the Templar – drawing on the last of his energy – grasped a gauntlet and made his last request.

“You… Your – Your face. Let… Let me see your… face.”

The question was repeated twice more, the fellow warrior’s voice hopeful and the rogue’s masked of all emotions.

_Leliana has trained them well... Too well._

“ _Dii klov?_ ” they asked, tapping the right side of their helmet.

Cassandra stepped closer, eyes unblinking, as they nodded.

“ _Nid. Dii Sahqo miin shaan fas,_ " the prisoner replied, shaking their head.

Again, the prisoner made to rise and, again, the Templar grasped their hand.

“Please. _Please_.”

“ _Hi…bolog? Nid. Ni bolog_." A pause. “ _Ruth Bron_.”

With a sigh, a breath of air hotter than the searing heat of a forge, the prisoner nodded, once, their stern acceptance followed by the removal of their gauntlets. Cassandra could not see any belts, buckles or clasps, but they did not simply slide off and, as they were removed, the _hiss_ of trapped air escaping seemed to echo. Their hands were grey, littered with white lines. Scars.

The prisoner’s helmet made the exact same sound, as if the armour was… alive. It was lowered onto the ice, cradled like a child, braids of thick, black hair obscuring their face, but not from the Templar. He gasped and, when they met Cassandra’s eyes, the Seeker was torn between two thoughts:

Demon… or dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nahkriin - Nah (fury); Kriin (slay; slaughter).  
> Krif zu’u! Nikriin! - Fight me! Coward!  
> Mu fen zin him vahruk. - We will honour your memory.  
> Dii klov? - My head?  
> Nid. Dii Sahqo miin shaan fas. - No. My red eyes inspire fear.  
> Hi…bolog? Nid. Ni bolog. - You... beg? No. Don't beg.  
> Ruth Bron. - Damned Nord.


End file.
